VOLUNTEERING TO HELP SYDNEY WAS A DUMB MOVE—I’M supposed to be blending in enough that people will think I’m nice. Normal. Not being the center of attention. But something about my neighbor leads to ill-advised decisions.

Before this evening, she was “the woman from the tour” and then “the woman I watch from my window.” My run-ins with her had either been abrupt and awkward, or from a detached distance, like watching a character in a Sims video game go about her business. Now she feels . . . real, I guess. All of the neighbors I spoke to do.

I hadn’t thought of them as real people. Even when I’d chatted with Mr. Perkins, even when I’d watched from my window or observed people during my walks, I hadn’t really been seeing them. It’s a startling realization, but to be fair, I’ve spent most of my life having to quickly categorize people as either threat or . . . something else. That doesn’t leave much room for having to think about their past or their feelings, or whatever.

Now I want to know more. And Sydney—I might want more than that.

Hold your horses, buddy.

Volunteering for her project is just a way to kill time until the ax over my head drops or miraculously disappears. While Sydney makes for a nice fantasy, my reality is being stuck in a co-owned house with a woman who barely acknowledges my existence, let alone our relationship.

I intend on going right up to my cramped attic studio and looking up some history stuff so Sydney doesn’t realize I know nothing about history, before heading out again. Kim has been staying out later and later anyway—which probably means exactly what I think it means, so I’ve been spending my nights out and about—but I hear music floating through the closed windows of the living room as I jog up the front steps.

The low, sorrowful notes sound like one of Kim’s classical music albums, which I call her “cultured entertaining soundtrack” since she usually listens to Taylor Swift when she’s alone; she must have guests.

Anxiety punches me in the belly as I imagine her parents behind that door, the rich, judgmental pieces of work who’d made it clear from the beginning that I wasn’t good enough, but they’d tolerate me temporarily because what Kim wanted, Kim got.

One Easter dinner at their place in the Hamptons, they’d told the story of how Kim had always begged for a new bunny every Easter and they’d obliged her, to the point that they’d started to run out of bunny names. When I’d attempted a joke about them recycling the same rabbit and renaming it every year, the table had fallen silent and her father had laughed in that tone someone uses when you’ve mispronounced your entrée at a French restaurant.

“You don’t keep replaceable playthings for longer than necessary,” he’d explained, and there’d been contempt in his eyes that had seemed disproportionate to a discussion about Easter rabbits. At the time, I thought he was making a sly jab at Kim’s affection for me, but now I think maybe he’d really been disgusted that I’d been gauche enough to suggest they couldn’t simply buy what they wanted, dispose of it when they were tired of it, and get a new one when the mood struck again.

Deep male laughter sounds through the door to the first-floor apartment, followed by Kim’s flirtatious giggle.

Maybe it isn’t her parents. Maybe it’s the asshole who sat across from me at brunch almost exactly a year ago, talking to me about his 401(k) like he hadn’t fucked Kim in the hot tub just hours earlier.

If David had been smug or had seemed like he was needling me, that would have given me something to really hitch my rage trailer to. But no. He’d been bland and boring before, and he’d been bland and boring after, and apparently that was what Kim preferred over me. And instead of leaving, I’d stayed and tried to make things good again, like it was another challenge and I’d win some kind of prize.

I really was my mother’s child.

The music suddenly grows louder as I stand on the bottom step, indecisive, and I turn to see Kim standing in the open doorway and looking at me like she’s glad to see me. The invisible anxiety fist gets in a few more jabs somewhere around my chest region. Or maybe it’s just heartburn from the chips and salsa I shoveled into my mouth while standing around after the block-party planning meeting had finished because I didn’t want to go back to my sweltering attic room.

“Theo?”

Kim says my name how she used to. Before we moved. Before she detached so hard she took a chunk of my flesh with her. Before almost exactly a year ago when she’d walked up to the brunch table where I’d listened to David drone on, sporting a low-cut top that nonchalantly displayed a hickey that I hadn’t given her, like we were in some kind of teen drama.

“What’s up?” I try to sound cool, but it comes out sounding surprised, which is a completely honest reaction for once.

“Want to come have a nightcap with us?” she asks politely, inclining her head toward the noise in her living room.

“Who’s ‘us’?” I steel myself to just walk up the stairs if she says David’s name, which seems in the realm of possibility, given the last few months.

“The neighbors from across the street. Terry and Josie. Remember, they had us over to try some of Terry’s craft beer right after we moved in?” She pulls the door open and I see the neighbors who live on the other side of Sydney smiling at me expectantly like we’re old buddies about to catch up. Terry’s beer had tasted like piss, and both their dog and their son had bitten me, so of course I remember our visit.

“Sure,” I say, trying to muster if not enthusiasm then hospitality. I should be happy Kim seems to be trying. “I’ll have a quick drink.”

“Quick? You have something else to do?” Kim’s nose wrinkles a bit, but she holds on to her smile and ushers me in.

“Hey,” I say as I walk in and take a seat on the weird angular couch Kim bought last month. The room smells like fancy cheese, so like ass, mixed with the tart scent of wine.

“Theo. Buddy!” Terry reaches over the coffee table littered with the remains of their appetizers and gives my hand a hard squeeze. He’s sporting an expensive Rolex on his wrist, and I imagine how he’d react if I slammed it down onto the edge of this ugly but sturdy coffee table.

“Long time no see,” Josie says, then holds up the bottle of white wine in her hand. It’s so huge it looks kind of like a novelty, but I’m sure it’s expensive and delicious. “Want some?”

Kim slides onto the couch beside me. “Dad brought it back from his trip to France,” she explains, casually placing a hand on my knee. A little shiver passes through me at the familiar press of her fingers. It feels more intimate than if she’d called me in here to fuck.

“Come on, look at this guy!” Terry’s words are a bit blurry around the edges, but he seems like a guy who comes home every night and hits the wet bar before taking off his jacket, so he’s possibly more than a little drunk. His face is wide, and, right now, the center third of it is flushed red and mottled like he got hit with the problem-drinker stick. “Wine? What does he look like? He’s going to have some bourbon, right?”

“I—”

Terry thumps his chest. “Bourbon. Man’s drink! Thatta boy.”

Terry is maybe ten years older than me, tops, but he’s clearly taken on the role of pushy drunk uncle at this gathering. I decide to roll with it. I take the glass from him as he hands it across the table, and feel the weight of three gazes settle on me as the smoky heat of the first sip warms my throat and chest.

“So, how was it?” Kim asks, squeezing my leg.

“How was what?”

“The meeting,” Josie says, leaning in conspiratorially. “About the block party.”

“Oh. It was fine.” I take another sip and run my tongue over my teeth.

“That’s it? Fine?” Kim asks, squeezing my leg a bit harder. “What’d they talk about?”

Part of me wonders if she knows I spoke to, and maybe flirted a bit with, Sydney. If she knows I volunteered to help with the tour instead of busting down doors looking for a job opportunity that’s not going to happen.

I use my free hand to gently pry her clawlike grip off me. “It was a party-planning meeting. The most exciting thing was when these two women started trash-talking each other’s macaroni and cheese.”

I shrug and take another sip, but Josie’s gaze narrows. “They didn’t talk about anything else?”

There’s something odd in how her gaze has gone from diffused friendliness to sharpened interrogation, despite the same pasted-on smile. I gulp the rest of my drink and plonk the glass onto the coffee table. “How about you just ask me what it is you want to know? Clearly I’m missing something, and I don’t have time to play guessing games.”

Kim’s breath brushes against my ear just before she whispers, “Don’t be rude.”

“Aren’t you unemployed?” Terry asks pointedly as he leans over to pour me more bourbon. “I’d say you have plenty of time.”

All three of them laugh, that rich-fuck giggle, and I turn to Kim with both brows raised.